The God of Death Offshoot Story I
by Tyrant of the East
Summary: The Death Spectres have engaged in numerous conflicts over their long service to the Imperium and to the Emperor. This is one such conflict.
1. Cleanse

"Cleanse."

The deep, baritone voice reverberated amidst the packed cafeteria of Forks High School, causing confused looks of amusement among the room's occupants. Probably a senior who was having way too much fun with a megaphone. After all, pranks were commonplace in any high school setting full of young adolescents.

"Purge."

Nervous laughter erupted from the assembled students. Principle Greene was going to have a fit over this.

"Kill."

The last word was punctuated by the unmistakable boom of a gun.

The student closest to the hallway disappeared suddenly in a mad welter of blood.

The shocked silence that followed was interrupted by the appearance of a metal giant, his immense form crouching slightly under the doorway to enter. Black armor, terrible and malignant, covered his massive frame, adorned with strips of aged parchment. A sneering white helm sat on his head, evil red slits for visors glaring balefully towards the stunned crowd. An arm ending with an oversized fist clenched tightly. The other arm held an enormous smoking pistol.

Two more of his kind emerged from the school's hallway, bearing the same form of weapon, albeit larger in size.

The screams that followed were only drowned out by the repeated roars of gunfire.

* * *

Veteran Sergeant Darkur aimed for the panicked figure of a heretic, her casually clothed frame trembling with fright. His bolt pistol jerked in his plated hands, belching forth a diamantine tipped shell towards his target. The traitor's body ruptured from the exploding round, spraying the immediate area with a shower of gore. Turning, the astartes sergeant lashed out with his power fist, catching a whimpering turncoat in the chest. The cackling power fields around the weapon vaporized the boy's torso before the momentum of his blow propelled the remnants of the corpse sideways into a wall.

Brothers Varken and Ichsan stood stoically beside him, their bolters flaring with repeated muzzle flashes. The storm of detonating metal slices through the pack of traitors, carving bloody swathes through their unprotected ranks.

The veteran marine nodded grimly with satisfaction. Such was the fate of the heretic, the mutant, and the xeno.

Darkur loosed another volley from his own weapon, cutting down a trio of sobbing lowlifes. Ignoring the eruption of viscera that resulted, the astartes sergeant activated his power armor's vox link.

"Brother Natios, Brother Usuar. Report."

A hiss of distorted static sounded in his helm before he was met with the calm tone of his men.

"The eastern hallways are secure. We met opposition in the forms of a flabby man with an autopistol. He is now dead."

Darkur smiled thinly at Natios's comment. Knowing his battle brother, Natios was more likely to slam the heretic through several walls before shooting him. The astartes veteran clubbed a wailing adolescent in the head with his bolt pistol, splattering brain matter on his black armor.

"Brother Tanrek, Brother Falkius. Report."

"Southern hallways are secure Brother Sergeant. No opposition. A few heretics were found loitering. We have ended their miserable existence."

Ichsan pulped a traitor's face with a powerful punch, sending the ruined boy's corpse flying back into the terrified crowd.

"Brother Meteron. Brother Halstis. Report."

"Western hallways are secure. Halstis's flamer was most effective. We bring the cleansing fire of the Emperor to these foul aberrations."

Varken kicked a scrambling heretic back, his victim giving a sharp cry of pain as she met the unyielding floor. Varken casually placed an armored boot on the turncoat's neck, and stomped down.

"Brother Avarian. Report."

A second of silence reigned before voice of the near two century experienced warrior replied.

"Upper levels are cleared. I have located the chief traitor in his dwelling. He is now being subjected to my interrogation."

Darkur grunted.

"Keep at it brother. Squeeze any information out of him before delivering the Emperor's Mercy."

"As you will it Brother Sergeant."

The veteran marine growled as he swiveled his gaze back to the running lowlifes. He squeezed the trigger of his bolt pistol a few more times, enjoying the look of horror these heretics gave him before they died.

"This is Darkur to all battle brothers. Secondary objective has been achieved. Primary objective is still in progress. Find the sparkling mutants and eliminate them with extreme prejudice. Forward Death Spectres! Forward to glorious victory! For the Emperor and Corax!"

A chorus of shouted assents assailed his ears.


	2. Purge

Astartes do not usually partake in the act of torture. The art of inflicting suffering was better left to the Inquisition and their lackeys. However, there are circumstances in which such revolting actions must be utilized to guarantee the success of a mission. This was one such situation, thought Darkur as he strode up the stairs three at a time to reach the establishment's upper levels.

Darkur grunted as he crested the final step and saw the twitching unrecognizable mess of the school's headmaster. The man's eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, wheezing whimpers escaping from his mouth. Towering over his prone body was Brother Avarian, the astartes's massive bulk radiating disdain and contempt. The veteran sergeant ignored the blood staining his brother's gauntlets.

"Nothing?" the Death Spectres sergeant inquired.

"Nothing," confirmed Avarian, shaking his head slightly, "the heretic has proven to be most resistant to my questioning. He continues to refuse to acknowledge the whereabouts of the blood suckers."

"Indeed? Then we have underestimated just how much these people have been corrupted by the mutants," snarled Darkur.

"Foul, degenerate beasts!" spat Varken, who had followed his sergeant up the stairway, his hands clenched into tight fists.

"How could this have happened? Was this world not faithful to the Imperial Creed years ago?" Ichsan's questioning tone rang over the vox net.

"Many years ago," corrected Avarian, "It would appear this planet has recently reemerged from a warp storm that has been hiding it for a near millennia. You have not read the briefing slate, brother?"

Darkur chuckled lightly at his fellow veteran's reprimand. Before Avarian's induction into his squad, he was the only marine to have reached a full century of service. The others were freshly turned tactical marines, having just completed their stint in the 9th Company as Devastators. It was considerable work to try and indoctrinate these young astartes in the fluid form of combat that was now expected of them, and Darkur had been more than grateful when the experienced warrior was assigned under his command. The space marine sergeant had immediately granted the new arrival the honor of leading the second of two combat squads should the need to split into smaller combat units arrived.

"I have not," Ichsan admitted guiltily, "I stand chastised, brother."

"You do not. We all have our moments of laxity brother. Just make sure it doesn't happen again," Avarian spoke candidly before he nodded towards Darkur.

The veteran sergeant found his gaze affixed to Avarian's right pauldron. All Death Spectres wore the skull and scythe motif of their chapter on a background of alabaster white. His sub-commander did not. He had painted over the symbol with a coat of black. A sign of atonement. There had been some rumors regarding Avarian's position within the 5th Company, namely him holding a rank of brother sergeant in command of his own squad of men. Darkur had dismissed them, of course, being the pragmatist he was. But, he could not help but wonder about his new co-commander's past.

A sputtering roar tore the Death Spectres sergeant from his thoughts.

Varken lowered his smoking bolter, his armored foot nudging the now lifeless headmaster. He turned to see both his superiors glancing towards his direction.

"Last round in the magazine," the young marine shrugged sheepishly.

* * *

Brother Tanrek sighted down the built-in targeting array of his lascannon, growling slightly as he further magnified the view presented. A trio of lightly armored vehicles were headed towards their direction, strange rectangular sirens wailing irritably. The heavy weapons trooper shook his head despondently. Such feeble foes. Tanrek had not participated in the carnage performed by his battle brother in the corridors, deeming the puny heretics as a waste of his precious ammunition. Instead, he had watched Falkius do most of the work, only complimenting his brother when a particularly gruesome death was meted out.

Now, finally a chance had come for him to join in the righteous slaughter, or so he thought. Tanrek sighed as firing reticules flashed intermittently in his visor. It would be a tremendous insult to the lascannon's venerable machine spirit for him to actually use it against such unworthy opponents.

Falkius heard his brother's disappointment. The Death Spectre strode over to Tanrek's position by the exposed window and clasped his friend firmly on the shoulder.

"What troubles you brother?"

The heavy weapons trooper shook his head again.

"The nature of our enemies, brother. They are so… pathetic. There is no glory in killing them," Tanrek replied mournfully.

"Aye. I agree. But, what we do here is duty. And duty is what makes us space marines."

"You are right brother. This is our duty."

An incandescent beam of blue light speared through the three speeding vehicles, shearing through their flimsy frames, and leaving them as gutted, smoking wrecks.


	3. Kill

The figure was gargantuan. Tall. Imposing. Clad in a full panoply of blue plate, it strode towards her like a herald of doom. Her doom. A twisted, gnarled staff was held in its hand, adorned with the golden motif of a two headed eagle at its end. A pulsating pistol was holstered at its side, radiating a dark green aura of menace. The being's armor was tapered with thin strips of parchment that held strange sigils unrecognizable to her. A white helm with red visors sat over its head, glaring at her in silent condemnation. The helm itself was attached to some metal hood that occasionally cackled with faint electric discharge.

She was afraid. Very afraid. How could this thing intrude in her mind, especially when she was asleep?

"Well, well. What do we have here? A budding psyker? How unexpected," the ventral mouth piece of the thing hissed into life, distorting her hearing with the sound of grating metal.

"W-What are you?" she cried out in panic.

"Hmmm… Your abilities are not yet fully developed. However, the talent is still there. Perhaps the Imperium can make use of you," it ignored her question completely.

"What do you mean? What Imperium?" her feet backpedaled in an effort to get away from this ominous being.

"Sadly, you are a mutant," the figure's voice held a faint tinge of reluctance in it, "If only your blood was untainted. However, one cannot change one's birth, no matter how one might wish to serve the Emperor."

"Then you'll leave me alone?" the words came out as a naïvely as she could make it.

The thing laughed as it continued towards her. She shuddered.

"Not quite. Being a psyker does not make you immune to the failures of your blood-sucking kin."

Shock crept into every portion of her body. This being knew what she was! What her family was!

"H-How?" she managed.

"Nothing escapes from the wrathful gaze of the Emperor and His Angels of Death."

"G-Get away from me!"

She needed to wake up! Now! She needed to warn Edward! Her family!

"Trying to flee are we? It is pointless. My own formidable powers have already locked you in your own conscience, mutant," its tone was filled with deadly mirth.

"No! Why must you do this! We haven't harmed anyone!"

The amusement was gone from its voice in a flash.

"Lies! I know of your filthy, depraved kind, monster! You are a mutant and a heretic! You have corrupted all these innocent souls around you! Feeding on them when your blasphemous hunger arises!"

"No! We are innocent! I am innocent!" she protested vainly.

A massive gauntlet pried off the ivory helm. She gasped at the face it hid. Features paler than her own glowered at her in pure loathing. Crimson eyes fixated on her like a predator watching prey.

"I am Epistolary Seydon of the Death Spectres. I tell you this; because my face and my voice are the last things you will ever see or hear."

The man's dilating irises flashed with whipping tendrils of psychic power.

Alice Cullen screamed.

* * *

Veteran Sergeant Darkur grunted as he slammed his power fist down on the hood of a retreating vehicle. The thinly armored machine was flipped rear over end from the massive blow, landing haphazardly on its top with a screeching crash. A uniformed man crawled out of the ruined wreck, moaning in pain. A round from Varken's bolter ended his misery.

Turning, the Death Spectre drilled four precisely aimed shots into the backs of a crowd of running heretics, blasting apart their unarmored frames with undisguised relish. Brother Ichsan added his own salvo to Darkur's volley, reducing the gaggle of turncoats into a pile of gory chunks.

"Brothers! Today we strike down the heretics of this blighted world! The entire 5th Company joins us in our glorious endeavors! Show these fools no mercy! Forward Spectres of Death! For the Emperor and for Corax!" Darkur boomed through his suit's vox-emitters.

"Purge and Kill!" Brother Natios echoed his sergeant's war cry with his own. The black armored behemoth surged swiftly through a panicked crowd of confused traitors, his boltgun forgotten as he used his hands to kill.

"Scorn the heretic! Scorn the mutant!" Usuar roared, his bolter sputtering with staccato fire. Half a dozen flailing forms disappeared under the storm of exploding shells.

"We are the Emperor's Wrath made manifest!" began Tanrek, the long barrel of his lascannon glowing faintly. A beam of blue light spat from his weapon a second later, shearing through a multitude of speeding, wheeled vehicles.

"We are His Fury given form!" finished Falkius, a torrent of shells issuing forth from his own weapon in support of his brother. The survivors stumbling out from the destroyed cars were torn asunder by the lethal barrage.

"Redeem them with bolt and blade!" Brother Meteron lifted a screaming man up in the air, impaled at the end of his bayonet. His boltgun boomed into life and turned the struggling heretic into a visceral mist.

"Cleanse and Burn!" Halstis kicked down the door to a one story dwelling. His flamer flared with a gout of burning promethium, scorching the insides of the entire building in one, almighty conflagration. Any screams were drowned out by the hungry embers.

"The Emperor guides our hand! Accept this and welcome your divine retribution with open arms!" Avarian bellowed, his shrieking chainsword messily sundering apart a mewling traitor. The veteran Astartes smashed aside another turncoat with an elbow to the throat before loosing a volley from his own bolter. A trio of fleeing heretics was flung on their faces like ragdolls, landing lifelessly in bloody heaps.

Darkur gave a roar of approval as his men, his Astartes, turned the streets of this coven for traitors red with corrupted blood.


End file.
